


He's the #NextBigThing

by Burning_Up_A_Sun



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, GQ magazine, HGTV, M/M, Magazine Interview, earlgreytea68's characters, next big thing - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 07:17:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3683031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Up_A_Sun/pseuds/Burning_Up_A_Sun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur, the star of HGTV's Love It or List It and Next Big Thing, sits down for an interview for the cover story for GQ magazine. Eames crashes the interview, and the woman interviewing has lost all control. And it's wonderful!</p>
            </blockquote>





	He's the #NextBigThing

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Next Big Thing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3349583) by [earlgreytea68](https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreytea68/pseuds/earlgreytea68). 



> a HUGE thank you to EarlGreyTea68 for allowing me the privilege of using her characters from The Next Big Thing. She's amazing, and I hope it's a wee bit ok.
> 
> tons of thanks to #GeronimoandbeMAGnificent for reading NBT with me each night and encouraging me to write the bantz.
> 
> to see the GQ cover that goes with this interview, [Arthur on the Cover of GQ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3599616)

I settle into the Lounge at the WBoston, a boutique hotel in the heart of the theater district. Oversized couches face a welcome fire in the glass-enclosed fire pit; I’m glad for the warmth. Boston is cold and wet, but it’s worth the damp clothes and mud-speckled stockings to meet with television’s next big thing.

Arthur specified this hotel and this bar. Who am I to argue with a real estate genius with an eye for beauty, both in design and men?

Someone sits across from me on the leather couch. It takes a moment to register that this prim, buttoned-up gentleman isn't a Boston Brahmin, straight from his historic home or bank office, but Arthur. He shakes my hand; his is smooth and soft, his nails well-tended.

A server appears, conjured up by Arthur’s presence. She's of the Social Media generation--born into it rather than introduced to it. Clearly she knows who he is; she ekes out a few words before blurting, "You and Eames are bae. You're totally my OTP."

The One True Pair. Yet Arthur without Eames is neither bereft nor adrift. He's sure of himself and comfortable being interviewed.

“Do you mind if I order a coffee instead of a drink? I’m not much of a drinker,” Arthur tells me, as if it were a shameful secret.

“That sounds wonderful,” I say. “It’s too chilly outside for my Florida bones.” I draw the server closer and ask, “Do you have hot chocolate? It’s my guilty pleasure.”

A voice behind me, so close to my ear that I feel the heat of his breath, says, “Arthur's, too. He’ll also have a hot chocolate. Won’t you, petal?”

Eames.

Larger than life, smoother than silk, complex as an oak-aged fine wine. Whatever cliché you prefer, they all describe Eames. He is all of those things and more. And when Arthur catches sight of his Intended behind me, a smile spreads slowly across his face, from his dimples to his eyes.

“You made it! I assumed you’d be working late!” Arthur says as Eames comes around and kisses him. Not a peck on the cheek, but a full-on, passionate, we-should-all-have-someone-who-loves-us-like-this kiss.

Eames takes a moment to ruffle Arthur’s stiffly gelled hair, delighting in its now-disheveled state.

Arthur balks, a squeak more than a squawk.

Eames kisses him again. “Darling, I had to. You’re entirely too stiff.”

I see the waggling eyebrows. They forget I’m here until Eames turns to me and says, “He’s always so stiff. In more ways than one.” Another waggle, this time for my benefit.

“I hate you,” Arthur tells him, desperately trying to re-place his hair as it had been before Eames broke the gel’s hold.  
This is really you two? Not something you put on for the cameras?

“If I didn’t truly love him,” Arthur says, working hard not to roll his eyes at his own nauseatingly-sweet response, “I would have already killed him and dismembered his body. He’s miserable to work with.”

The server appears at that moment, carrying two mugs with the rims covered by decadent whipped cream and chocolate shavings. Eames whispers something into Arthur’s ear, and Arthur immediately blushes from his forehead down to the line of his jaw. I assume it has to do with the whipped cream when Eames runs his finger through the white peak and teases Arthur’s mouth with it before the lips part and his finger slips inside.

I feel like a voyeur, observing some sacred sexual ritual, too personal for a mortal to see.

Before I can unbutton my shirt to release some of my own steam, Eames turns to the waitress. His smile is the one we see on television, wide and toothy and full wattage.

“Miss Beautiful,” he smiles at her, and she is helpless. Putty. “Would it be possible to get one of those delightful, tiny chocolate lava cakes, with double lava? But no berry compote.”

“Absolutely, do _not_ bring the fruit,” Arthur rolls his eyes. “Nothing vaguely healthy should ever come near this man’s mouth.”

Eames’ raised brows this time are met with a deep sigh. “I should have known,” Arthur says. “Even as the words left my mouth, I knew it was bad.”

“I cannot be held responsible for what goes into or comes out of your mouth, darling. Speaking of that, are you going to eat?” Before Arthur can answer, Eames beams at the waitress one final time and adds, “He’s going to eat. Bring him a lava cake, also. You may bring him his berry compote. But, Miss Beautiful, would you bring that extra lava in a little pitcher?”

She nods, incapable of doing anything else.

Eames affects everyone he meets this way. It’s easy to see how Arthur fell and fell hard for him.

“No, you’ve got that wrong,” Eames answers quickly. “I was hopeless around him when we started _Love It or List It_. I couldn’t work. I couldn’t concentrate. Who could?”

He looks at me, as if this statement requires confirmation. It requires none. Arthur gulps his hot chocolate. He doesn’t realize a line of whipped cream has stayed under his nose.

Eames, trying to behave, resists cleaning it, whether with his tongue, lips, or napkin. He motions, subtly pointing under his own nose. Arthur swipes his napkin to tidy his face, which has again turned red.

Arthur, it seems, lives in a state of perpetual blush. “Hush. She’s not here to talk about us.”

He’s right. I intended to talk to Arthur alone. To ask about social media and its impact on business. To discuss the transition from local realtor to national celebrity. If a question about his closet (do you own a pair of jeans?) and the rumored sex club entered the conversation, so be it.

But I knew, here and now, that I had lost total control of the interview. That Eames would direct it, and I should hold on with both hands. Thank God for apps that record, so I didn’t need to take notes.

“Of course she is, pet.”

I ask about social media, about their presence on Twitter, and the explosion on show nights.

“We never expected that,” Arthur answers without guile. “It’s fun to watch it blow up, but we don’t do anything to cause it.”

“Arthur is just Arthur. People respond strongly to his sense of honesty and integrity.”

I watch Eames, looking for the twinkle in his eye, the poke in the side. But when it comes to Arthur, he is serious.

His hand slides next to Arthur’s on the table. Nothing overt. Nothing grand. Their pinkies entwine, and you know that motion is them on every level. Connected, together, one.

Until the lava cakes come. Arthur literally holds Eames back, to allow the waitress to place the plates on the table.

“I adore this.” Eames drools as he pours the ‘extra lava’ over the spongy chocolate. The warm syrup renders the dessert sodden, more batter than cake.

Arthur looks at me, his face saying he’s seen this before. “This is his favorite meal. When we come into the city, we have to stop here so he can eat fully-cooked cake batter.”

We both look at Eames, who sits quiet and beatific, reveling in the sinful sweet. Licking his spoon. Looking at Arthur side-eyed. Again, I feel like a voyeur, but not dirty. Their relationship seems adorable and sweet. Pun intended.

“You’re ridiculous,” Arthur says, hesitating as he reaches for his fork and plate.

“Darling, you’re not going to eat that, are you?” Eames asks Arthur, tut-tutting and sliding the plate away from Arthur and in front of himself. “You really shouldn’t, you know. Those suits.” He turns to me, considering me an ally, and says, “They are deliciously tight, aren’t they? I love them! The hashtag _#eamesforassshots_ trends every NBT night.” He’s gleeful and genuinely happy, content in what is his.

Eames pours the remaining warm chocolate over Arthur’s portion and focuses once again on eating.

I ask about the show, the possibility of another season of #NBT. “It hasn’t come up at all,” Arthur says. “We have had some difficulties.” Eames stops mid-bite to watch Arthur. “I’m not telling tales out of school--”

“No one says telling tales out of school, darling. You might as well say, airing dirty laundry. At least there’s a pun in there,” Eames says with enough good grace not to speak with his mouth full.

“I’m not telling tales out of school,” Arthur repeats. “Anyone who’s seen the show, or Tumblr, or Twitter knows about our tenuous relationship with the third judge.”

I’d like to explore that, but Eames shuts it down before I can open it up. “I have questionable judgment occasionally,” he explains.

“Like that shirt,” Arthur points to the silk, red and gray paisley monstrosity that Eames is wearing. “Actually, like any of his shirts.”

“Now, petal. We can’t all be the belle of the ball, like you.” Eames stops short of licking the plate, but he does drag his spoon through the small pitcher, looking for traces of the sauce. “Besides. If I were ever to rise to your level of sartorial splendor, it would be lethal. Trust me.”

Eames brushes a kiss across Arthur’s cheek for two reasons. One, because he is obviously in love. Two, because he has now left behind a perfect chocolate lip print.

The interview ebbs and flows for almost an hour, eventually becoming more of a conversation between colleagues. They discuss my hair, which Eames insists is gorgeous and that whoever is my stylist must remain my stylist until the day I die. They critique my outfit. “Truly, you could go down a size, if you don’t mind me being forthright,” Arthur says. Eames stares at him, jaw dropped, before Arthur recognizes his gaffe. “Down a size on your outfit. Not your body. Your body is fine. Well, better than fine. It’s quite beautiful. I mean—“ Eames has fallen off the edge of the couch, holding his stomach and laughing so hard that I am afraid for the contents of his belly.

We part outside the hotel, with hugs and pecks on the cheek. They promise me a tour of their home if I’m ever near Roslindale, and I agree faster than I’d intended. They feel like old friends, comfortable and welcoming. I watch them leave, Eames bumping into Arthur deliberately with his hip. I can see him smiling in profile. Arthur grabs his arm, pulling him in for a quick kiss before they interlace their fingers and walk up the street hand in hand.

The light spilling from the hotel’s windows, modern, angled, sleek, illuminates their backs as they move away. It strikes me that the hotel is like Arthur and Eames. Modern, shrewd, trendy on the outside. Inside, it’s warmth and love and joy. And that's the next big thing.


End file.
